


Like A Star

by chocolatekiller (melonbutterfly)



Category: Twilight
Genre: F/M, Romance, Suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-05-07
Updated: 2009-05-07
Packaged: 2017-10-12 23:27:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,444
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/130310
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/melonbutterfly/pseuds/chocolatekiller
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"She wasn't slim, pale like most girls and women were at the time; she was curvy and had a golden tan and he could very well imagine the sweet blush she'd wear at better times, when she wasn't hurt."<br/>My take on Carlisle & Esme's story.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. You have appeared in my life

When Carlisle came home that day, I immediately knew that something was wrong.

His face looked smooth and for someone who didn't know him as well as I did—and there was nobody else—it would look like everything was alright, but I could see it was all wrong. Even if I wouldn't hear his thoughts, I'd know that something had happened.

But I could, and so I looked at him and could only ask "What's wrong?", and the next moment he had already opened the doors to his mind. I could see her face dawning up from the depth of his memories, and even though I had never personally met her I recognised her immediately. Still, he said her name, and it sounded like it was prayer and imploration at the same time.

"Esme," he said.

I had never heard him say her name. I had never heard him speak in a voice like that.

And I closed my eyes and let Carlisle's memories of the time she had literally fallen into his life wash over me, no matter that I already knew them, had seen them before. This was his way of telling me, and he was telling the story from the start.

 _Columbus, June 1911_

Carlisle entered the room of his current patient with the thoughts of his next one already on his mind—this one was a young woman, almost a girl still, with a broken leg; a clean, simple break he'd be able to treat quickly. His next patient, though, was a little boy of seven who was coughing blood and getting weaker and weaker, and he didn't know why. He'd treat the girl quickly and move on to the boy.

But the moment his eyes fell on the 16-years-old, cinnamon-haired young woman, all thoughts of little Benjamin and his mysterious sickness fled his mind.

He couldn't tell why. It wasn't her blood; he barely noticed that anymore and she had only minor abrasions on her hands and leg. She smelled of sun and fresh grass and hay, but that wasn't it either—it weren't her mint green eyes that looked big in her pale face but that were, despite the pain, full of sunny laughter and a light happiness. Neither was it her voice, clear, not bell-like or birdlike but deeper, less girly, rich of soft, self-confident femininity.

She wasn't slim, pale like most girls and women were at the time; she was curvy and had a golden tan and he could very well imagine the sweet blush she'd wear at better times, when she wasn't hurt.

Hurt. Yes. She was hurt. She was a patient. He was her doctor.

Carlisle shook his head, trying to clear it of something he couldn't define—it was a hunger of a different kind than the one he had been fighting ever since he had been turned and that he had all but defeated. Except for Edward, he hadn't ever drunk from a human and he didn't feel tempted now—something else, similar but totally different, was tugging at his chest.

"Doctor?" she asked tentatively, pulling him out of his stupor and he realised she had spoken to him before. He had only heard her voice but not registered the words she had said.

Carlisle cleared his throat and smiled, face smooth and letting through no glimpse of his inner turmoil of confusion, hunger and fear. "Yes. I'm sorry. I'm Dr. Carlisle Cullen and you are Ms. Platt?"

She nodded and smiled, and it was like the world around them paused for one breathless second and he didn't know how or why. But at least he could listen when she parted her lips to say, "Esme. Esme Platt. If it weren't inappropriate, I'd ask you to call me Esme."

His own smile was an answer to hers and he hadn't even made the conscious decision to smile back before it was out, and he heard himself say "If it weren't inappropriate, I'd call you Esme and ask you to call me Carlisle." Was he actually _flirting_ with her? God, he hadn't flirted in more years than he could count; he had still been human then. He had never allowed himself to pull a woman into this his life, hadn't even felt tempted to until this very moment, but he didn't intend to let continue what hadn't yet begun. Not even now that he was oh-so-tempted; especially not now. _Get a grip, Carlisle, she's almost still a child!_ , he told himself sharply and not-so-effortlessly pushed himself into the routine as a doctor.

"What happened?", he asked and stepped closer, briefly wondering where her chaperone was. He wouldn't be able to examine her without one.

"I was just climbing this tree; I did so countless times before and I never slipped. I just wanted to take a look at the robin fledglings; I could hear them, but I wanted to see." Usually, he would have expected one of those naïve, cute little girls to say something like that, but Esme- Ms. Platt looked like she was totally serious, explaining in her calm, warm voice how she had slipped and fallen, landing with her whole body weight on her left leg. Carlisle would have wondered why she was so calm despite the amount of pain she had to be in if he didn't know she had gotten some laudanum already. Now that he took a closer look, he could see the dry traces of tears on her cheeks; her eyes were swollen and red-rimmed.

She was just explaining where else she hurt when the door opened and one of the nurses entered the room. "Dr. Cullen, Ms. Platt asked me to chaperone while you examine her daughter. She had an important date for tea."

"Yes, Mrs. Crafter is giving a tea party at the moment," Esme agreed, giving Carlisle the short moment he needed to reign in his inappropriate scandalising. In his long career as a doctor he had met many children who were showing signs of neglect or even abuse; Esme, at least, seemed to be well taken care of physically, and that already meant a lot. She didn't seem unhappy, despite the fact that her own mother had left her in such a situation. He had no right to care for her like that, she was just another patient. Just another patient.

"So, Ms. Platt, your wrist hurts and your hands burn, is that right?"

She nodded. "Yes, Dr. Cullen." She raised her hands, showing the abrasions on them. "But it's not so bad. It will heal in a few days."

"Yes, but Marie still better put some iodine on it. Does your head hurt? Did you hit it when falling?"

"Not really, I think." Her brows furrowed as she thought. "No, I don't think so. It doesn't hurt either."

"Alright. Will you let me examine your wrist, then?"

"Yes, yes, of course." Esme smiled and trustingly offered her wrist, and for the blink of an eye it almost seemed like she was offering more than just an examination. But that wasn't what he wanted, and it certainly wasn't what he was going to do. Not to anyone, not to Esme. Especially not Esme.

Ms. Platt.

So Carlisle examined her wrist, moving it this way or that, feeling for swelling and the bones, all the while trying to pretend this was nothing more but another patient. And she wasn't. She couldn't be. It was impossible; everything, anything concerning her was impossible. To him, she was as taboo as any other woman, only even more because she was more precious than anyone else he'd met before. No. Whatever he wanted, and he didn't even dare find out what it was for it was too dangerous, he couldn't have it. Esme Platt would marry a man of the appropriate age, a few years older than her, maybe actually her childhood love. She'd have his children and live the happy life of a loved wife until she died of a natural death in sixty, maybe even seventy years. Carlisle would still look like twenty-three in seventy years, and he would be far, far away from her and her life. It was not for him, _she_ was not for him. _This can never be_ , he told himself and didn't even know what _this_ was.

"Your wrist is strained, not broken. A week's rest and you'll be able to move it without pain again. Marie will bandage it later."

She nodded, a little paler again because of the pain, and let go of a breath. "And my leg?"

"We will plaster it, but I fear I will have to examine it before to find out where the break is."

Biting her lip but without hesitation she nodded and leant back.

"You can hold my hand, dear," Nurse Marie offered and Esme—Ms. Platt smiled weakly and nodded, taking the offered hand with her uninjured right.

"I'm sorry if this will be uncomfortable for you, Ms. Platt," Carlisle said and pulled her skirt up to her knee. "I swear I have no inappropriate thoughts." He paused until she nodded while deep inside of him that what he wanted tried to become clearer. He didn't allow it to.

"That's alright, Doctor," she said and smiled again. "I know you're only trying to help me." Very few women, especially unmarried ones, had shown that calmness when he was about to feel up their thighs—then again, that didn't happen too often, thankfully.

So Carlisle pulled the ribbon open that held the left leg of her long underwear above her knee and started to press his fingers into her soft flesh, feeling for the bone and pushing the cloth up her thigh in the process. The farther upwards he came, the more it hurt her; she was holding her breath and biting her lip, but from time to time, a whimper came through—until he unexpectedly found the break. She gave a small scream and Carlisle immediately pulled his hands away. Almost desperately clinging to his calm professionalism as a doctor, Carlisle pulled her skirts down again and turned to Marie, who was full of sympathy for Esme, who was trying to breathe calmly and stop her tears.

"I'm very sorry, Ms. Platt," he apologised, and she looked at him from between her wet lashes, eyes watery, and nodded. "The break is almost exactly in the middle of her thighbone," he told Marie, who nodded.

Carlisle politely waited until Esme had calmed down enough to sit up again, a shy, almost shameful smile on her lips.

"Ms. Platt, that was very brave of you. I have seen men in less pain that didn't show the strength you just did." Her smile was so bright and delighted it almost seemed like she hadn't cried merely a minute ago, if it weren't for her still wet cheeks. "Marie will plaster your leg and then you have to stay as still as possible and put it up. Your family doctor will have to look after you." Esme nodded—and then she offered him her hand, her right hand, looking him in the eye, and said "Thank you, Dr. Cullen. I hope we'll meet again. It was a pleasure. …more or less," she laughed at that and Carlisle couldn't help it—he took her hand and placed a feather light kiss on her knuckles. "The pleasure was mine, Ms. Platt."

He could feel her eyes following him out of the room. He could still feel them all the way down the corridor, and only three corridors later he realised he had walked totally the wrong way—his next patient's room was at the exact opposite of the hospital.

 _Ten years later—_   
_March 1921, Wisconsin_

It was her smell. Carlisle recognised it the moment he smelt it, and a second later shook his head at himself. It couldn't be her, it couldn't be Esme. She was hundreds of miles away, in Columbus, safe and far away from him. Why was he even thinking about her? It had been weeks since he last had, ten years after he had first and only met her.

And then he heard her voice—and if he hadn't heard it so often in his memory, he wouldn't have recognised it. Gone was the underlying laughter, the self-confidence. She sounded vulnerable, way too vulnerable, scared and hopeful at the same time. And she said his name.

"Carlisle? Dr. Cullen?"

Carlisle turned around, and there stood Esme Platt. She was wearing a black dress that didn't fit well, and she was pregnant—in her eighth month, maybe.

"Esme," he whispered, too quiet for her to hear.

But it wasn't the Esme he had known. She was pale, but it was a different paleness than that born of acute pain. It was the paleness of someone scared, someone who hadn't seen a sunny day in a long time, and he didn't mean the weather. Her eyes were big in her face, and he looked into them and didn't see the sun anymore—he saw way too much, and nothing at all. She had seen—she had seen. He didn't know what, but it had taken the light out of her. It gave him a painful stab to see her look like that and he wished he could do something, anything to give her her light back.

But some of it was still there. There was a sparkle in her eyes; weak, but it was there. A steely strength he didn't want to see in her—the strength of those that had seen hell and intended to get out of it—strong enough to be visible, but too weak to guarantee she'd make it.

All he wanted to do was pull her into his arms and protect her, protect her from anything and everything, from anyone who intended to hurt her.

He cleared his throat. "Ms. Platt."

She took a step closer and smiled weakly. "Not anymore. Not since seven years."

Carlisle hated the darkness that he heard in her voice, that moved in her eyes—something had happened to her, and it wasn't an accident or even an incident; something permanent, something she had had to suffer under.

He swallowed. She hadn't told him her new name, and so he had no choice but call her by her first name. "Mrs. Esme. How can I help you?"

She looked away. She looked away. She looked away and swallowed, then opened her mouth to say something and closed it again, as if she were afraid of what was going to come out of it. As if she didn't know what she'd tell him.

Carlisle took a step closer, and it took all his control not to reach out and pull her to him, cradle her to his chest and promise her safety.

"I- I need a consultation." Her voice was small, he wasn't sure he would have understood if it weren't for his hyperaware senses.

"Yes, of course. Please follow me." He offered her his arm and there it was—a small smile, almost like the first fluttering of a bird whose wings had been broken. He prayed she'd fly again.

Esme's grip wasn't tentative; there was still strength in her, he had seen it, and she wasn't scared to touch him, nor did she rely on his guidance. Some of the old Esme he had gotten to know ten years ago was still there.

He led her to one of the examination rooms and wondered whether he should ask after her husband—she was wearing black, so either he or one of her parents had died. Had they met a few years earlier he could have guessed that her husband had died during the war, but even if he had, she had to wear mourning colours only for a year.

To be honest, he didn't want to know. He was strong enough to let her go without ever having caught her; he was strong enough to be content with the knowledge that she was far away and safe and happy, but he wasn't strong enough to hear about her happiness.

Only it seemed like there was no happiness—and that was even worse.

She said his name again the moment he had closed the door of the examination room behind her, and it sounded like a prayer and an imploration at the same time. God, he wanted to help her. How he wanted to help her—whatever she needed, he was willing to give. But he couldn't, shouldn't—he would do for her what he could, and then he'd send her out into her life hoping she was going to find happiness, just like he had last time. She was not for him; life with her was not for him.

"How can I help you?", he asked, voice level barely above a whisper.

Esme drew a shuddering breath and allowed him to lead her to a chair. "I- my child, my son. Something is wrong, I can feel it."

He should have told her that he had no experience with childbirth and pregnancy, Carlisle knew. He was working here as a general doctor; in his many years of existence he had worked in all areas of medicine, but of course he couldn't let anyone know. But he couldn't. He had to help her.

And so he pulled out his stethoscope and started to ask her questions. "How can you tell something is wrong? Has the child stopped moving?" He didn't think it had; he could hear the tiny, quick heartbeat underneath her slower, stronger one, but he had to ask.

"No." She shook her head. "He hasn't. He's not moving a lot, but I can feel him—even now, he's moving. But… I can feel something is wrong."

"Are you throwing up a lot? Do you feel dizzy or tired? Do you have any pains, rashes?"

"I'm not throwing up. I'm tired and sometimes dizzy, but not more often than usual since the beginning. My back hurts, and my feet, but nothing else."

Carlisle shook his head. "I will have to examine you again," he said softly, and she gave another of those weak, fluttering smiles.

"Yes," she said and started unbuttoning her dress at the top. She shrugged it off so it pooled around her lap and opened the bow that held her undergarment together. When she pulled that off as well, Carlisle did his best to be professional and only looked at her swollen stomach.

"I'm going to listen for his heartbeat first," he explained. He would have warmed the cold stethoscope with his hands, but they weren't any warmer—she didn't complain, though, only flinched slightly when he put the cool metal to her stomach. The babies heartbeat was very quick like it was supposed to be; he heard it without the stethoscope, but he couldn't tell her that.

He pulled away and put the stethoscope away. "Will you allow me to feel if there is anything wrong?"

"Always," she whispered very quietly; maybe too quietly for the human ear, and nodded.

Carlisle bit his tongue and put his fingers to the side of her stomach. She didn't flinch at the touch that he knew had to feel cold to her, but soon Goosebumps broke out over the skin of her arms. He felt around for a bit, half massaging, half feeling for any hardened parts, but there was nothing. And then, when he was just about to pull his hands away again, he felt it; the baby kicked his hand.

Totally surprised, Carlisle blinked, and Esme laughed.

It wasn't a small giggle; she really laughed, and it was like someone had lit up the light in her again. Suddenly her eyes were twinkling again as she looked up at him and said "I think you were going on his nerves," and Carlisle couldn't do anything but smile back. _She's going to make it_ , he thought. _Whatever she's going through, she's going to make it_.

 _The following day, early morning, thirteen hours later—March 1921, Wisconsin_

Carlisle heard her screaming three corridors away. If it hadn't been her, he wouldn't have gotten involved, wouldn't even have gone there unless to ask if he could help, but- it was Esme. He had thought she had left; he had even brought her to the exit, relishing that the light hadn't left, that the twinkle in her eyes had gotten stronger.

But she was in the maternity ward, and she was screaming.

Carlisle was there so quick he could only hope nobody had noticed or seen him running, but at four in the morning, that was thankfully not too likely.

He entered the room and found chaos. Several nurses were there and three doctors. One of the doctors was carrying something, someone small in his arms, wrapped into white towels. Carlisle could hear no heartbeat.

And four nurses were holding Esme back who was fighting with all her might, trying to get to the bundle the doctor was carrying away—she was wearing a hospital gown, bloody and sweaty and wet, and her stomach was flat.

And the screaming.

She didn't appear to notice that anyone else was in the room, only that something was keeping her from her child, her dead little son. One of the doctors was trying to talk to her while the third was preparing a syringe, probably with morphine to calm her down.

Carlisle couldn't have stayed away, even if he had wanted to.

"What happened?", he asked one of the nurses that was flittering around being useless. She looked relieved that she could do something, even if it was just explaining.

"She came here with stomach cramps. It was too early, but we couldn't do anything but prepare for birth; her water had broken. Her son… was dead. We don't know why, there are no physical signs that anything was wrong."

 _No_ , he thought, not bothering to remember to keep his face calm, _no, no, no, no, no. Not this. Not her son._

She didn't recognise him. Esme didn't recognise him when he stepped into her line of vision. She was staring at the door the doctor had carried her son through, and she hadn't stopped screaming. Carlisle knew he'd never again hear something as horrible, as heartbreaking as her screams.

I cursed when I emerged from the memory. Esme had played a role ever since she had appeared in Carlisle's life; she had been on his mind far more often than Carlisle could approve of, and still he couldn't prevent it. His thoughts always lead to her, sooner or later.

And I could see Carlisle's thoughts now. He should have done something; something, anything to prevent this. No matter what, he should have helped her, should have been there; she had trusted him when he had told her everything was alright, and hours later she gave birth to a dead child.

"Carlisle, there was nothing you could have done," I said, knowing he knew that as well, but needed to hear it. "As far as you could tell the baby was alright. In fifty years you probably would have had developed technical means to make sure it really was, but not now. You did everything you could. You couldn't have prevented a stillborn, and you know that."

Carlisle nodded. "Yes. I know." Then he shook his head. "But Esme…"

"You want to do something to help her. But are you really willing to do it?"

He looked at me, and I heard his thoughts, still a confused mess. I had never seen him like this before, not even when he had turned me and been so full of guilt for that. I could see it all—he wanted to hold her, protect her from the world, bring her here and make her happy—and at the same time he wanted to bring her somewhere far, far away from him, some place she'd find the happiness she really deserved, with someone who'd grow old with her. He'd never given in to his own wishes in all his life, but at the moment he wasn't far from actually doing so. And I, who had seen her through his eyes and mine, could tell why better than he could right now.

"If what she needs is someone to love and protect, to cherish her? Someone who'll give her another child? Someone who marries her and gives her a home, a family?"

I could see it in his thoughts—for a brief second I saw him picture them, Esme and him, a family, me actually with them, but then reality and reason made their way back into his thoughts. He could love and protect and cherish her. He could marry her, give her a home, a family. But he couldn't give her a child—and he couldn't give her his life. He could dedicate the years she'd live to her, but he could never grow old with her. They'd never be an equal couple. And she'd never be able to make friends outside the "family"; she could never really live a normal life for we'd have to move every few years to conceal the fact that Carlisle and I didn't age, and after a few years, people would start to wonder—what was such an old woman doing with two young men in her house? And all that only if she could accept what we were, which was highly questionable to begin with.

No. It'd ruin her.

I saw it. Carlisle would never be able to do that to her.

He shook his head and took a deep breath, not because he needed to breathe but to calm himself. "You're right. I have to keep her save—away from me." He shook his head again and ran a hand through his hair; I could see him calming down. If he were human, he would have married her without a second thought—but if he were human, he would have died over a hundred years ago and never met her. It was an irony, but one of the many he would have to live with. Or whatever it is we do.

The following day, he brought her home—into our home. At first I didn't know; he came into the house and I could see the chaos in his thoughts—a chaos that was different than the chaos from the day before, for it was controlled by one icy-determined thought: _She will not die. Esme will not die._

He smelled of blood, but he didn't tell me why. One moment later I knew anyway; he speeded back to the car and pulled a bundle from the backseats into his arms. I hadn't smelled her myself before, but I knew it was her—it was obvious it was her; it couldn't be anybody else but her.

Her heartbeat was weak, and she was wrapped in a blanket that only left room for her face. I followed Carlisle up into one of the rooms we didn't use, one of the rooms with a bed, even though the smell of her blood was tearing at my control. It was a losing battle; I'd have to leave soon, but not until I knew what was going on.

Gently, very gently Carlisle put Esme down on the bed, and then he told me.

 _Earlier that day, late morning, ten hours ago—March 1921, Wisconsin_

"Hey, Dr. Cullen!" One of the younger, new doctors, freshly graduated, ran up to him. For some reason the younger ones often sought him out; they were looking for his approval, he could tell, though he didn't know why. Maybe because they thought he was young too, which was very ironic. "Don't you hate it too to treat them after they tried to kill themselves?"

He furrowed one brow, a gentle disapproval. "We have to treat everyone equally, Dr. Carmen."

"Yes, yes, I know," the young man hurried to agree. "I don't treat them different than I do anybody else—but this one jumped off a cliff, broke nearly all the bones in her body, it's a wonder she's still alive—there wasn't much I could do. I gave her morphine for the pain and now we can only wait until she dies, can't we?"

Carlisle frowned. "She jumped off a cliff?"

"Yes, yes! And you know what? I heard she actually was a patient here before—gave birth to a dead child only yesterday, a widow from what I heard, it's- Dr. Cullen?"

Carlisle didn't hear. He was running down the corridor the way they had come.

She was broken. Her body was and she was.

Her breathing was shallow but regular, and she was unconscious; at least she wasn't aware of the pain her body must be giving her.

 _Esme, oh Esme_ , he thought. _Why didn't you come for me?_ But why would she? She barely knew him—and she probably hated him for he hadn't helped her with her child. She had known something was wrong, and it was he who had told her there wasn't—only hours before her son had died. And what would he have done had she actually come for him?

But not this, God, not this—Esme couldn't die, shouldn't die, he would have done everything to prevent that-

Would he really?

Motion and mind stilling, Carlisle stared down at her battered, broken form. There was one thing he could do, one thing only he could do—had done once before already, with Edward.

Could he? Could he really do this to Esme, without her permission? She didn't want to live, it was obvious, but- ten years ago, she had been like life itself, and now she had tried to kill herself.

Carefully, Carlisle took a step back, then another and another until he was standing at the door.

He would come back later.

But an hour later nothing had changed, and everything had changed; he wanted nothing more than for her to live, for her to find happiness again.

Six hours later, her heart was still beating—it was fighting a doomed battle. She hadn't lost much blood, ironically; she had landed on grass, not stone, so there were little outward wounds. But she no doubt had internal bleedings and her spine was broken; it was only a question of time until she died. He was terrified she'd die while he was away every time he left.

Eight hours later he touched her cheek and she opened her eyes.

For one moment, the world seemed to hold its breath before it started moving again, and then Carlisle was bending over her face, looking into her mint green eyes.

"Esme," he breathed, knowing she probably wasn't even aware—but there was a way to tell. "Can you hear me? Blink if you do."

Her eyelids fluttered close and for one moment he believed she had fallen asleep again, but then she opened them again. She was aware.

Very carefully, he touched her cheek again, running his thumb over her cheekbone. He didn't know what to do—knew what he wanted to do, but didn't know if he should—no, actually knew he shouldn't. But he couldn't not.

"Esme, do you want to live?", he whispered. "Blink if you do."

Her eyelids fluttered close for one moment until she was looking at him again. His heart soared, and he knew what to do.

"Oh, Carlisle," I said. It was clear he hadn't bitten her yet; she wouldn't lie so still if he had—but it was also clear he would. The decision was set; he would not let her die, and he was terrified she'd hate him as he had been terrified and, in a way, still was that I would.

"She's dying," he said, and the thought caused him almost physical pain. His feelings for her went a lot deeper than I had expected, and even more than he had expected; until a few days ago, he had believed she didn't mean much to him—he had believed he was fond of her because to him, she represented life.

But I knew and know that she didn't represent life for Carlisle, she _was_ life.

I couldn't hate him. I couldn't blame him; I couldn't even try to talk him out of it, because to be honest, I was scared of what it would do to him. Meeting her the first time had changed him more than he knew, and that second and third time had changed him even more, and this time… I didn't dare try to stop him. Carlisle was, in a way, my rock; I needed him strong and calm and in control, and letting her die would, I feared, destroy that, destroy him. I didn't know what I was more scared of in that moment; that he'd bite her and she'd reject him, or that he'd let her die on this bed. Either way, the Carlisle I had known would be gone.

There was nothing I could do. It was his decision.

"I have to leave. The smell drives me crazy," I said, and Carlisle nodded.

I stepped out of the room and prayed that, when I came back, he'd still resemble the Carlisle I knew and loved.


	2. You have appeared in my life

Carlisle stood staring down at Esme for he didn't know how long.

Time was not important.

He stood there and stared down at her battered form, listening to her heartbeat, knowing she wasn't going to survive—her legs were broken, her spine, the left side of her hips was shattered as well as her shoulder and complete left arm, including her wrist. He was sure a few bones in her left hand were broken as well; it was a wonder she was still alive and aware from time to time. She wouldn't be able to feel her legs, which probably was a relief, but even lying down had to hurt like hell and it was a blessing she was unconscious most of the time. Her sleep was enhanced by the morphine she got injected on a regular basis; when the nurses left too much time between the last and the next shot, she'd wake up, at least a little. But she had only really been aware the one time Carlisle had been present, which was good; it had been easier to feign her death that way, and he had had to. Today, Esme formerly Platt had officially died, one day after her unnamed little son.

And Carlisle was the one who was going to kill her, but as he stood there, smelt her blood, saw her broken body, remembered how hurt inside she had been, he couldn't not.

He had to make it quick, before she actually died; Edwards was long gone and there was nothing to stop him anymore right now. Almost from the outside, he saw himself take a step towards her and then another until his knees brushed her bed; then, he kneeled at the side of it, bending over her body. Her smell got stronger there; not just the smell of blood and pain, but also her own innate scent that couldn't be described with words. And it made him hungry.

It wasn't a dangerous kind of hunger; he was so used to blood by now he had no doubts he'd be able to control himself. But he also knew from his experience of biting Edward that he, once he had tasted her blood on his tongue, would have to fight a wholly different kind of hunger. Few ever realised because few had ever taken care to learn control to the extent Carlisle had, but a vampire could go into rage of two kinds; the rage of smelling blood, and the rage of tasting it. Most vampires lost it over the smell already so they never noticed, but when biting Edward, Carlisle had found his control balancing dangerously close to the edge. Until Edward, he just hadn't ever tasted human blood and hadn't known how different to animal blood it really was, but now that he knew, he felt both hungrier and more secure, because he knew what to expect.

He also knew now that the closer to the heart, the quicker and thus less painful the change, and so he pulled Esme's hair and the cloth of the hospital gown out of the way, away from her neck. Slowly, very slowly he brought his mouth closer and closer to where her blood sped rich and tasty through the strongest vein in her body—very tentatively, he ran his lips over the skin, relishing in its warmth and liveliness. And then it all happened very quickly; he bit down and her blood spilled into his mouth, and the next second Carlisle was crouching over her, one hand clutching to her hair and the other balled to a fist, pushed against the mattress to keep himself from grabbing her body anywhere it'd hurt her.

Esme didn't wake up, didn't even move while he sucked her life out of her, and that made it easier to stop when he heard her heartbeat slowing. He pulled away from her and pressed his fingers to the wound, not allowing her blood to spill out, and sat back.

At first, nothing happened, but as the poison slowly made its way through her body, burning her, she started to make little whimpers, first lips still closed but opening when the whimpers got louder. She couldn't move; if she could have, she would have started thrashing at this point, he knew. Edward had. The next couple of hours would be long and painful for them both.

I gave Carlisle two days; I knew I could have come back after a few hours already because as soon as she had been bitten, she wouldn't be prey for me anymore; besides, dry blood doesn't apply to my senses as much. But I wanted to give him those two days because he'd want to take care of her anyway, and to be honest I didn't want to witness his thoughts while he dealt with her pain. And then there was a nasty little part of me that wanted him to be alone with her pain, to know what he had done to her and to me as well.

When I came back a few hours earlier, she had stopped screaming. Once or twice I had come close enough to our house to hear but not be heard; she was loud enough for my sensitive ears. To hear her had filled me with dread and pity; pity because I knew what she was going to become and wondered what she was going to think about it; was she going to hate it the same way I did? Would she be torn apart by anger and a strange kind of love, mixed with thankfulness and awe, for Carlisle? Like me? Or would she be actually happy?

I couldn't imagine she would be. She had wanted to die, after all; she had tried to kill herself. Somebody couldn't send a clearer message that they didn't want to continue life, and what Carlisle was doing, had done to her was disrespecting her wish; it was even more egoistic than changing me had been.

Yet, I couldn't judge Carlisle for that; not with this insight into his head and feelings that I had. He felt the same heavy guilt he felt for changing me, but stronger; stronger because my mother that I didn't, couldn't remember had practically ordered him to turn me into this. Stronger because Esme had practically ordered the general world to let her die. I couldn't hate him for that, but that only made me all the more angry—and then there was the love Carlisle felt, the desperate love for her he couldn't even name; it was so all-consuming that I myself almost felt in love with Esme after delving into his thoughts. It was irrational and unexplainable, but no less real. But the worst feeling in Carlisle, the feeling that made me incapable to hate him, was the loneliness. Sometimes, when I dived too deep into him—when he let me see everything—it made me sob dry tears, it was that strong. He had never said or even just thought anything, but I _knew_ , and I was amazed that he had made it this far. Yes, there had been no other choice—he had tried to kill himself a hundred times and more—but still, he had managed to turn this his cursed existence into something good, had reigned his own overwhelming (I should know) instincts and yearnings in to the point that he was all but immune to human blood, just to do something good. To help them. Any other vampire would have thought it futile; why help them heal when they died in a bunch of years anyway? But not Carlisle.

Which was the reason I was, despite everything, grateful that it had been Carlisle who had changed me and not anybody else. That it had been Carlisle who had guided me through the first, hardest months; who had been there to strengthen and teach me, to help me become something I didn't despise. Yes, life was still hard, and sometimes I grew so frustrated because there had to be something more; I wasn't going to follow Carlisle like a good puppy all my… existence, was I?

But I couldn't leave him alone for I knew what it'd do to him, and also because I didn't know what I'd leave for. There was no life for me, nothing in this world that'd truly make me happy, was there?

Just like Carlisle wasn't truly happy. Yes, he rejoiced in his work; it gave him a purpose and was repayment at the same time, but it wasn't his… everything, medicine. I had given him more; my mere existence and staying with him was already giving him so much, but there was still something missing for his ultimate happiness, and I knew what—or who—it was. The caramel-haired young woman who climbed up trees and jumped off cliffs for the same reason; to find something more.

I froze mid-step.

Esme had jumped to end her life, hadn't she? And Carlisle had tried to end his own countless times too, but I knew for a fact that even now that he knew how, he wouldn't ever try to do so again; not with medicine as his purpose. Theoretically and if it were possible, he'd now regret it if he had succeeded, because back then he hadn't been aware yet of what he could do. Hadn't been aware that he could do so much good, save so many lives as a doctor with enhanced senses. And he had seriously and honestly wanted to end his existence.

Just like Esme had. But maybe she only had because she had no purpose; actually, that was probably true. She hadn't entertained any thoughts of suicide while carrying her child, had she? I wouldn't know until I met her, but until then, I could guess. Someone who really wants to kill himself does so in spite of everything—but someone who would kill himself but doesn't because they have a child to raise… someone like that wouldn't ever kill himself unless that child, that purpose was gone. It was all about purpose—Carlisle's purpose, Esme's purpose. Carlisle had had no purpose yet, Esme had lost hers. Both had tried to commit suicide and not succeeded—only Carlisle was a few steps ahead of her. If Esme got her purpose back—or rather, a new purpose, seeing as getting her pregnant was impossible now—maybe she'd reconsider? Would she, then, in a few years, look back and be glad she hadn't succeeded in ending her life?

If so, then Carlisle had actually done something good—again.

I took a deep breath to smell the world around me and took up running towards the house again.

When I arrived this time—having checked up on them a few hours earlier—I first listened for Carlisle. He was strangely calm; calm and, in a way, frozen from the inside. In a way, we were all frozen from the outside, but at the moment, he was completely frozen. Immediately I felt guilty for leaving him alone for so long; the guilt and the fear and the desperation as well as the love and the… I didn't know how else to put it but "tender admiration". There are actually very few emotions that can be put to words, and it's a lot harder to read emotions than thoughts, though they often go hand in hand. But right now, Carlisle was only waiting; waiting for Esme to wake up. There was a tiny hope in him that she wouldn't hate him or that she'd at least be only righteously angry at him, but considering all facts he knew, he didn't think it was very possible. Certainly she wasn't going to be thankful.

I went upstairs and into the room Esme was lying in, Carlisle sitting motionlessly on a chair by her bed, and I looked at her—unconscious, still—and I looked at him—conscious, still—and I could only pray that everything was going to be alright, despite all evidence. That she wouldn't hate him, wouldn't reject him, wouldn't be angry at him.

It was exactly forty hours after I had left the house to give Carlisle the time alone to bite her that she opened her eyes.

She didn't slowly come to, didn't first smell around, not-yet-conscious; no, it was as if somebody put on the light. One second she was out, the next second she was conscious, fully conscious, and opened her eyes.

At first, she didn't think much. A good part of human thoughts aren't actually thought in words; it's very hard to describe, and I can't really see emotions. So, at the beginning I couldn't do much more than guess; she was confused. Her senses were enhanced by thousand compared to human once (at least I think so, it's not like I can really remember); she could smell things she hadn't even known had a smell before, like the floor, the walls, the wood in the walls and windows, the glass. Carlisle, me. The wood outside, the remnants of her human scent that still lingered in her clothes and the bed sheets, the smell of her own death. Carlisle had washed all the blood away, which was very good; otherwise she would have smelled it and probably immediately gone into blood rage. Newborns were like that.

Then there was what she could hear. The ants crawling beneath the floor. The wind outside, the leafs, the small river almost a mile into the forest. The woods, the animals crawling in them. What she couldn't hear was Carlisle and me; we were keeping perfectly still, both waiting motionlessly but not emotionlessly—Carlisle's worries had increased tenfold the moment she had opened her eyes—for her reaction.

Still, she didn't move. She lay there and listened and breathed, and then her brow crinkled, and she stopped breathing. I could hear what she was thinking; she was wondering why she didn't feel the need to breathe, why- oh-oh. Now she had discovered that she had no heartbeat, that something about her felt off, something less obvious than her enhanced senses. Slowly, she was getting panicky, and then—yes. Her memories came back, hitting her like a freight train, and she gasped and bolted upright.

"What-" she gasped, and I took the time to notice that, apart from the emotion that made her voice high and almost squeaky, she had a nice voice. Carlisle quickly stood and moved to her bed; he wanted to take her hand, wanted to take her into his arms and hold her until she calmed down, but knew that that was probably the worst thing to do now.

At least I thought so—until her eyes fell on him.

She stilled. Not the dead, shocked still I would have expected, but a kind of awed, emotional still; her first thought after she recognised him actually was _Oh no, I must look a fright_ , and then she remembered the last time she had seen Carlisle—belying his thoughts, she had recognised him after her stillborn's birth—and tears welled up in her eyes.

Well, not real tears.

Which caused her to fall right back into the confused mess her thoughts and emotions had been whirling into before she had noticed Carlisle.

"Do it," I said quietly, referring to the almost overwhelming need within Carlisle; the need to hold her. He didn't even take a second of hesitation or doubting; I hadn't been with him for more than a few years yet, but he had already learned to trust me completely, which always filled me with a mix of love, disbelief and admiration. The _trust_ he placed in me… even when I had been so angry with him I felt I could have burst, there had been that trust and understanding in him, that compassion. It should have driven me crazy, but it had the opposite effect.

Esme didn't have the advantage of being able to read his thoughts, but she had the advantage of knowing (well, recognising) Carlisle and—I just wasn't too sure on that yet—loving him. When he touched her, first a little tentatively, but then pulling her into his chest, she took a shuddering breath—remembered that it was unnecessary—was about to freak, but then Carlisle put a hand on the middle of her back, and her thoughts scattered, settling on something like _Carlisle is hugging me, Carlisle is_ touching _me—this must be paradise—_ she couldn't quite grasp it.

Did she love him?

Hell, yes. Even from the few shreds of actual thoughts I got from her, I could tell.

An hour later, everything didn't seem so bright anymore. She had been told about the changes in her 'life' and had then caught up with the fact that her son was dead, that she had tried to kill herself, and that she had nothing left in life anymore. I had corrected her on that, reminding her that she had Carlisle, for which I had gotten a glance and an inner huff from him, thinking to me about how I was supposed to tell her something that would help her. I would have liked to argue on that point, but the words got stuck in my throat when I heard her thoughts; she wasn't even disbelieving me. To her, it was totally out of question that Carlisle could be interested in her, despite the fact that he had been holding her like something precious at the beginning. But no, she didn't even consider for a brief moment that I could be right.

What made me go silent were the thoughts that accompanied that one, though. It wasn't like she explicitly thought something akin to _My husband has been mistreating me, so I am unable to trust anyone right now_. The human mind didn't work like that. No, it were the flickers that she got; seemingly little memories of someone—a man, _Charles_ —yelling at her, throwing her away, hurting her with words and so much more. The moment was too brief for me to determine that he had really raised his hands against his wife, but I could tell there was something deep and bad lying in that direction.

But, as I said, she didn't think about it too much and not in detail. She couldn't think about anything too much and in detail; she would always, always be distracted by the hunger. It made me remember how the first months had been for me; I had been always hungry, and the tiniest trace of human blood on Carlisle would make me go crazy. He always had to be very careful during that time; now, he would have to be careful again. Especially since Esme's hunger fuelled my own, and if it had been possible, our stomachs would have been growling.

We went hunting.

To Esme, it was all still through some kind of daze that I knew she wouldn't break out of for a few days yet. She didn't directly think; usually, people think all the time, unless they're sleeping. But she was sometimes just blank. This confused me; I tried to think back to my time as a newborn, and the fact that I couldn't really remember much eased me up a little. I would have asked Carlisle, but I knew he didn't have that much experience with newborns either, and he was a nervous wreck right now anyway. He had actually turned in emergency-holiday at the hospital, saying that someone in the family was sick and he couldn't leave them alone yet, which, in a way, was actually true. But he felt like he just couldn't leave Esme now; he felt he had to be constantly with her, guide her, protect her for what he had done to her. He was fully into guilt-mode—not undeserved, but still I tried not to make him feel worse. I could tell Esme would give him an earful sooner or later; she was too quiet, inside and out. She'd need a bit more time, but once she'd fully comprehended everything she was and was going to be—and was not going to be—she just had to react somehow.

It wasn't until a week after her awakening that that happened.

She had been too smooth, and she had only turned smoother and smoother. Blood lust would twist her features inside and out, but once her thirst was stilled—after a bear and an additional wolf or something else—she'd just sit back and look around, face and thoughts as still as her rage. Sometimes I barely dared to look; it was like watching a glass fall and being unable to catch it, to have to watch as it slowly fell towards the ground and shattered. I only hoped Carlisle would be able to put her back together in a way that'd make her work better.

The day she broke down, heaving dry sobs and crying unspilt tears, was the third one that Carlisle was back to work, having been unable to get more than a week's leave. I hadn't exactly followed her around, leaving her in the peace and loneliness she seemed to prefer, but had always kept an eye and an ear and my inner attention on her. Sometimes she would roam the house for hours, searching for something without knowing what it was; it drove me crazy. Once, I could convince her to go running, but it hadn't given her the pleasure it gave me. She'd just follow me, all her instincts forcibly reigned in, just like everything else. To her credit, she was very, very good with that, which only served to confuse me more. I had been unable to find out anything else about her past, her husband, the rest of her family if existent; all that seemed to be stuffed into a deep, dark hole that she kept closed tight at all times. Her son was a different matter; she'd grieve for him like I suppose a normal mother would, and sometimes she'd wonder if it weren't for the better—if she wouldn't have been a horrible mother, with no money and no way to give him the life he deserved, and that would inevitable lead to Carlisle (many her thoughts would lead to him sooner or later), and she'd wonder if they'd ever have met again if things had been different. Then she'd wonder about whether he would have liked him—her son Carlisle, Carlisle her son—and whether she would have ever gotten to know me. And she'd wonder when she would have lost Carlisle again; a few years, five at most? Once, she had thought that the way things were now was probably for the best for all parties, except for the fact that she was still alive. Carlisle and I would be better off without her, she had thought; she was but a burden to us, especially when she lost it. It would be years until she could be trusted enough to walk alone, without someone watching in case humans crossed her path.

I didn't know what to make of it. She knew I could read thoughts, but she either wasn't really aware of it or just didn't care. To me, it just didn't make sense; how could she think like that? Carlisle had changed her, after all; that had been in no way influenced by her, and he certainly wouldn't have done so if he hadn't been willing to guide her. That she'd worry about me was understandable in a way, though it made me wonder if I had made her feel unwelcome in any way. If I had, she hadn't point blank thought about it, so I wouldn't have noticed, and it would have been accidentally. I had no problem with her. She puzzled me and I frankly didn't really know her yet—which was a confusing experience for me since I could hear thoughts—and also did I have to get used to someone else being there where there used to be only Carlisle and me first, but I was trying. I was fighting with newborn senses as well, though I wasn't that newborn anymore; my eyes were golden and I could go under humans if it wasn't too much of a crowd and I didn't breathe. We should have been able to bond over that, but she… it was like she had no personality at all, she was just in a strange, almost constant daze. To be frank, so far there was nothing to bond with for me.

Until her breakdown, that is.

At first, the trigger had been so small I wouldn't have caught it at all had she not reacted to it like that. It had been a simple glass vase, empty and standing on the windowsill ever since we had moved in three years ago. When dusting, both Carlisle and I had cleaned around it; not because we liked it, but because we didn't care about it at all, not even enough to remove it. Now Esme had opened all windows because she liked the wind rushing through the house, but that day it had been a rather strong wind, and by accident, the vase had dropped and shattered.

Esme had gasped, whirled around and stared at the shards with her mouth and eyes wide open in shock. I was sure, had she been human she would have paled; her heart would surely have been beating wildly. Her thoughts had, at first, been totally empty; she had just stared at the shards glinting in the light, wind ripping at her hair and dress.

And then, the memories had welled up.

They came in such a rush that both she and I staggered; they overlaid each other and were so vivid, both visual and acoustical, that I totally lost orientation. And they were all of shattering glass; at first glance rather inconsequential, if it weren't for the yelling and the pain.

The pain.

That was what came next. I almost felt it as if it were mine; I saw a man unknown to me screaming in a rage, face red, veins pulsing in his forehead, and that wasn't all. I saw countless situations all more or less at the same time; of bottles thrown into walls, glasses or plates swept to the floor, mirrors shattered. I saw violence; the man advancing from various perspectives—sometimes she was standing, sometimes she was lying, sometimes she was kneeling or ducking, flinching away—and hitting her, kicking her, grabbing her, shaking her.

It was horrifying. I was honestly terrified of that man, even though I didn't know him and he had done nothing to me, and if he tried I could snap him in the middle like a twig.

Only slowly, I became aware of the real world; I heard her sobbing and whimpering, the only form of crying a vampire can do. Blinking, I refocused; somehow, I had sunken to my knees while Esme had crumbled, kneeling and curled around herself, arms covering her head. From the memories that were still streaming through both of us, I now knew that it was a position she had often curled into to protect herself. I myself was panting; a residential human reaction that would have surprised me, had I not been so preoccupied. Normally, I would have tried to calm her down, but the memories that were affecting her were affecting me just as much; not only because I had never seen them before, but because such violence—towards a _woman_ , a person weaker and more fragile, someone I had been taught to protect—was certainly appalling, but even more it was horrifying that such a thing had been done to someone like Esme. She was a beautiful woman and, as far as I could tell from the memories, hadn't done anything to warrant such outrageous reactions—not that anything ever would have; for a man to beat up a woman—and it made me angry to see her like that, so angry.

But now that the stream of memories was weakening, I became more aware of myself again. To see her life played out in a rush like this had simply overwhelmed me, but slowly, everything started to make sense. I saw everything she saw; she was practically reliving her whole life, all her memories that she had forcibly locked away were coming back again, and I saw them all. Not like a film, a movie, with an end and a beginning; the brain stored memories by no logical order, just like the shattering vase had connected to various memories of other shattering porcelain or glass. Her whole life played in front of me in that manner; it was straining, but at least I finally saw the truth, saw _her_ , Esme. The difference from the former her that had been nothing but a shell to now made that even more obvious.

And she was still on the floor, curled around herself and thoughts in disarray; she wasn't even trying to get herself together; she was in full panic-mode, the same she had been in those most violent situations. She didn't act anymore, she only reacted.

I had to wait until she had calmed down enough so she'd recognise me.

As expected, it was really long before she had calmed down enough to become aware of her surroundings again. I had kneeled a few steps from her, waiting and watching; when she started to slowly get back into real world again, I shifted to get her attention and softly said her name, my voice level barely above a whisper.

"Esme."

She flinched, whirling up and around, eyes opened wide as her thoughts scattered, her whole body as tense as could be. It felt like she'd run if I even just twitched; I kept very still and concentrated on looking into her eyes, trying to calm her again. She felt so bare, so scared and unprotected it almost made me shiver.

"Esme," I repeated, this time whispering, and she focused on me, taking a hasty breath when she realised she had collapsed right in front of me. The worst wasn't her guilt when she realised what she had 'objected me to' (as she put it); it was the residential fear that flared up again when she, for just a moment, was scared of me.

Of _me_.

I had never done anything to warrant that spark of fear and I rationally knew that she wasn't in fact scared of me; that she wasn't really able to differentiate between me and her husband right now after that overwhelming rush of memories. But there was a part of me that was hurt; the part that was very aware of what I was, what kind of creature, and that it was no wonder she was afraid. Before I even got that far, though, she really recognised me and slumped. Her guilt became overwhelming and she bowed her back again, starting to apologise. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry," she whispered again and again and I immediately forgot the sting of hurt I had felt when she had flinched away. For a moment, I forgot to hold back and knelt before her, pulling her into my chest; thankfully she didn't pull back but slumped into me, allowing me to wrap my arms around her.

I have no idea how long we sat like that; we were both very upset and trying each other down. She was trembling from emotion; it was like someone had caged her into a spice too tight and now that she had sprung free, she had trouble keeping herself together. I was still trying to get over everything I had seen and felt from her; it was hard not to go and search that man that had called himself her husband and give him some of his own medicine.

We were still kneeling on the floor, leaning into each other, me holding her and her holding me, when Carlisle came back from the hospital. He had been worried about her before, but that didn't compare to the worry—and also a kind of guilty relief—he felt when he saw us like that. He took a few steps into the room but paused, insecure if he should get closer; "Are you alright?", he asked, even though he knew we weren't. I shook my head; Esme didn't react outwardly, but inwardly her thoughts fluttered again. She didn't want him to see her like that; so disgustingly weak and dependant (her thoughts, not mine; certainly not mine), but didn't feel up to pretending or running either. It was then that I got my first hint of how much Carlisle actually meant to her; she had put him on some kind of pedestral, viewing him as some kind of perfect, close to god-like person who saved others. She was totally unaware of how egoistical it had been of him to change her, because she was totally unaware of how beautiful and wonderful she was to Carlisle. No, she was not only unaware of it; she thought it a fact that she was unattractive, annoying and nothing more but a bother. There was no logic in her and too much self-contempt.

I was at a loss. I had no idea how someone's worldview could be so twisted; I hadn't been in contact with too many people yet, especially not since becoming a vampire, and was simply floored. Instinctively, I knew that that issue wouldn't be solved in a matter of days; it needed time, lots of telling and especially proving to her that she was worth something. Now, she was only waiting for us to dispose of her, to get bored or annoyed with her and send her away. She had no idea that that was probably the last thing Carlisle would, could ever do.

But I did. So I looked over Esme's head and mouthed for Carlisle to come over; he looked doubtful, but did as I had told and kneeled in front of us. Sending me a helpless look which I didn't react to except to raise one eyebrow, he leant over us and helplessly put his arms around us. He was scared he'd make her feel caged in or invade her personal space, but he trusted me, which filled me with pride. When Carlisle carefully tightened his hold on us, mostly me, I leant into him so Esme would be pressed into his chest, not too tightly, but comfortably. It filled Esme with a mix of fear and happiness; she loved being this close to him but was scared he wouldn't like it. Over it all laid her confusion; she didn't understand why he was doing this; why I was doing this, for that matter. Why we were holding her like that instead of punishing her because she annoyed us.

It was still a long way to go for all three of us until she'd be able to trust, but Carlisle was willing to do anything, everything to make her better, and I was as well.


End file.
